


It's the Little Things

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Computer Viruses, Fluff, M/M, Post-it Notes, Sherlock's Mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's looking for his computer, again. Instead, he finds something more interesting.





	

John was looking for his laptop, which Sherlock habitually borrowed and did not return, when he found the stash of notes. Usually, his laptop was in the sitting room, sometimes the kitchen, but today his search had come up empty. He’d become quite proficient at searching, since Sherlock tended to stash his stuff in the same places.

Frowning, John glanced at Sherlock’s bedroom door. Clearly, his laptop was in that room, given the fruitless search of the rest of their small flat. It was ridiculous, his reluctance, given that he was reclaiming his own property. As John debated the morality of searching Sherlock’s room, his phone pinged.

_Dinner, Angelo’s? SH._

John hesitated, then replied.

_Headache. Pick me up some takeaway? JHW._

_Agreed. SH_

That bought him at least twenty minutes, John thought guiltily to himself. He wasn’t really sure why he felt guilty at all, since Sherlock had never respected his privacy or personal property at all. It was definitely against his nature to breach someone’s privacy, though, and John’s heart was beating fast, hands steady, as he carefully opened the door to Sherlock’s room.

He had been in here, of course, though the day had not yet come that he had spent the night with Sherlock. His ventures here were generally related to cases, he in his capacity as Sherlock’s doctor rather than lover or friend.

Looking around, John’s laptop was not immediately apparent. He sighed. No choice but to move things, which Sherlock would certainly notice. He opened drawers, marvelling at the military precision of the socks (was there some kind of index in action here?), pants, cufflinks… His laptop wasn’t in there, though, so John closed the drawers and turned his attention to the wardrobe. Suits and shirts were arranged by fabric type and colour, the hangers precisely spaced. His laptop was clearly not here either. John allowed himself to trace one finger over the shoulder of a charcoal suit before closing the door. He looked at the rest of the room, trying to decide where else Sherlock might conceivably put his laptop. The why was beyond him, he just wanted his laptop back.

John dropped to the floor, looking under the bed. Nothing, not even a sheen of dust. Mrs. Hudson had clearly been in here, he thought. As he sat up, frowning, the corner of a piece of paper caught his eye. It was sticking out from between the mattress and base.

Without thinking, John pulled on it, but it was stuck. He lifted the mattress, surprised to find a pile of papers. He lifted them out and sank down onto the floor to examine them, entranced by the text on the top piece of paper.

 

Pizza – no olives, no mushrooms

Never Chinese beer

Ice-cream only when nightmares are bad

Doctor Who – Sunday nights (it’s THE DOCTOR not DOCTOR WHO)

 

These were facts about him, John realised. Little things about how he liked his pizza, and that the character’s name was not Doctor Who (a pet peeve of his). Sherlock’s handwriting was distinctive, with its scratchy scrawl, so the notes were clearly by him.

John frowned, sorting through the rest of the papers. They were written on all sorts, from napkins to pages from notebooks to the backs of receipts, clearly whatever was to hand.

John saw phrases and words, merging together: Shower after work = BAD DAY, Sarah at work, June 14th PTSD, NOTHING ON TOP SHELF, Chelsea is a football team not a woman, Tchaikovsky not Wagner, Army Tattoo???, March 2nd birthday…

Each word or phrase meant something about him, something that Sherlock had written down because…why? He had an eidetic memory, his hard drive contained all the important information from his whole life. Why would he not remember these things about John?

John was still sitting on the floor, looking at the notes, when Sherlock came into the flat, takeaway in hand. He called out to John, then froze when he stepped into the sitting room and saw John through the open bedroom door.

“John?” Sherlock asked, putting the food down on the chair as he walked into his bedroom.

John was not looking at him, as he shuffled the papers together.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, surveying the spread on his floor, not speaking.

“I was looking for my laptop,” John said, “the paper was hanging out the side of the mattress.” He didn’t apologise for the invasion of privacy, and Sherlock didn’t ask.

“Am I that forgettable, Sherlock?” John asked quietly. “Do you delete me from your hard drive?” He couldn’t understand it. Sherlock retained everything that was important. Everything. But not, apparently, John. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock as he waited for a reply. Embarrassment, hurt and confusion fought within him.

“I took your laptop to Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly. “I accidentally infected it with a virus, and his minion fixed it for me. They updated your virus protection so you don’t have to worry about it again.”  

He sounded a little lost, John thought. “Thanks,” John replied, “Though I’m not really sure how that’s relevant right now.”

Sherlock nodded, then took a deep breath as though to speak, but sighed. “I delete things automatically sometimes,” he admitted. “About people. Most people, the details don’t matter, I don’t have space for how they take their tea or when they chose wafers over digestives.” Sherlock was fiddling with the corner of his suit jacket.

“But I do?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, fingers still working on his jacket. “I don’t want to forget,” he said. “I try to remember, I want to remember all the little things, they do seem important, but sometimes, they’re just not there when I go looking for them.”

He frowned, and John could see this was a new situation for him. “So I write them down and review them daily so I don’t forget.”

John looked at the pile around him. It was substantial, and some of the things must have been from conversations months ago.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. He rifled through the papers until he found the one he was looking for. He handed it to John. It was a napkin from Angelo’s, John recognising the embossed A at once. He tilted the napkin to read the notes: twin sister (deaf), left handed, Army doctor (Afghanistan), shot L shoulder.

John didn’t understand. “Is this from…this is from the first lunch we had together, when you thought I was deaf!” he exclaimed, smiling at the memory. They’d both made a false assumption that day, and in retrospect it was amazing that they’d continued to sign for so long without realising the other could hear.

Sherlock nodded. “You’ve always mattered, John,” he said.

John could see how much it worried Sherlock, the idea that John would be angry if he forgot something. A wave of affection crashed over John. “Oh, Sherlock,” he said, kneeling on the floor in front of him. “Everyone forgets things about other people, it’s okay. It’s lovely that you’ve made these notes but I’m not going to be mad if you forget one thing, even my birthday.” He shrugged. “I know I’m important to you, you show me that every day.” He smiled and cupped Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock finally raised his gaze to meet John’s.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, then leaned in to kiss John.

“So I assume you’re going to keep borrowing my laptop, then?” John asked as they collected up the pieces of paper.

Sherlock frowned. “Of course. Your virus protection is military grade, now, far better than mine,” he said seriously, and John found he actually didn’t mind at all.


End file.
